


(begging for) footnotes

by saturatedsinset



Series: tolerate it [3]
Category: All Elite Wrestling
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29205495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturatedsinset/pseuds/saturatedsinset
Summary: It happens before Matt chooses to do it. One moment Kenny's talking, laying words out like a cloak, and Matt's fist is clenched at his side, and then Matt's fist is moving of its own accord, and he feels the impact before he knows he's doing it.
Relationships: Matt Jackson/Kenny Omega
Series: tolerate it [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2128650
Comments: 7
Kudos: 13





	(begging for) footnotes

**Author's Note:**

> all i do anymore is mattkenny. kenny vs matt singles match when 
> 
> tumblr: @[saturatedsinset](https://saturatedsinset.tumblr.com/)
> 
> title from "tolerate it" by Taylor Swift, as was always inevitable

Matt doesn't want to hurt Kenny. He doesn't.

It's just. Maybe, if Kenny could feel a fraction of the hurt he's inflicted on Matt over the years, unseeing and uncaring, just for a moment, maybe he'd get it. Maybe if Kenny finally sees Matt, actually looks at him, he'll see the thousand invisible scars he's left, and.

And maybe, finally, he'll choose Matt. If he just sees every way Matt's contorted himself to be everything Kenny needs.

Of course Matt doesn't want to hurt Kenny. But he's known him for a decade, knows he'll never actually see all the pain he's caused unless he's forced to, so. It's not that he _wants_ to hurt Kenny, he just. Needs to. So that he— so that they _both_ get some closure, so that this endless vicious cycle gets resolved. So Matt gets the answer he deserves.

Kenny's speaking in that lilting, self-assured rhythm, like always, and he's looking past Matt, or through him, like always, and he's lying through his _fucking_ teeth, like always. And. Somewhere, buried under layers of self-preservation and the desperate lies he tells himself, Matt knows Kenny's soft platitudes don't mean anything. But it's never mattered, before, little whispers in the dark as they lay facing each other, the small, lovely moments that Kenny lets slip before he falls asleep.

Now, though. Now Kenny's lying to both of them, smooth and easy like it doesn't mean anything. Like he doesn't even have to try. And maybe normally it would kill Matt, suffocate him with how soft, how _nothing_ it is, but right now he feels like he's on fire. Right now it isn't about him—or at least, it isn't only about him, it's about Nick, it's about how both of them have bent over backwards to be Kenny's right hand, and Kenny doesn't care. Maybe he's never cared.

It happens before Matt chooses to do it. One moment Kenny's talking, laying words out like a cloak, and Matt's fist is clenched at his side, and then Matt's fist is moving of its own accord, and he feels the impact before he knows he's doing it. Kenny staggers back, stares at him, and Matt can see the white-hot shock-betrayal-anger flash across his face as the blood paints his teeth, pools on his lip. Matt glances at his hand, can see the crimson against his knuckles, and for a second he's almost sorry until Kenny _snarls_ , teeth bared and eyes wild.

And then Kenny doesn't hit him back. Instead, as quick as it had appeared, the wild look fades and Kenny just runs a hand through his hair, takes a slow breath, walks away. Matt wants to scream his throat raw, but he can feel Nick grab his shoulder, pulling him back, and the calm steadiness of Nick’s hand is almost worse than Kenny turning away again.

*

He tries to explain it, later, when Nick asks him what the fuck he thinks he was doing, but the words don't come as easily as the thoughts did when Kenny was in front of them. Nick's pacing, frantic, and Matt's hands are tight on the table, his white-knuckle grip hard enough that even the blunted edge of the table feels like it's digging into him. Matt is always stagnant while everyone around him moves.

Eventually, Nick's yelling subsides, leaves only his eyes boring into Matt, and Matt swallows hard. There's no way it doesn't sound pathetic.

“I just want him to see me,” he says quietly, sounds half-broken even to himself. Maybe he is. Looking up, Matt reaches for his brother, searching for the reassurance he so often hates Nick for giving. “I just. I need him to see me.”

Nick catches Matt's hands, his eyes hard. “He's _seen you,”_ he says, his exasperated sigh edged with desperation, like he's pleading but he knows it's futile. Matt can almost see the cliff's edge the three of them are approaching, but he's powerless to stop, can only shake his head.

“He hasn't,” he says quietly. “If he had he’d understand.” But Nick's stare feels like a spotlight, showing too much in a relief so sharp that Matt feels cut open.

“He sees you, Matt,” Nick repeats, swallowing hard, staring harder. “He just doesn't want you.”

That isn't true. It can't be true. After everything Matt's done for him, after everything they've done _together,_ after Matt's been by his side for so long, it can’t be true. The blood is rushing in his ears and the sympathy-sadness- _pity_ on Nick's face is almost audible for how oppressive it is, too loud for Matt to hear what he said, what he's saying, and his eyes blur from the rush of tears, pinprick-sharp behind his eyes, and he can't be here, he _can't._

He leaves, half-running, trying desperately to tell himself it's not fleeing even though he knows the truth. Without a destination, his feet direct him the same way they always do, toward their dressing room, toward Kenny, and he's halfway there before he realises that's impossible too. Matt's alone, again, always, and his throat is dry but he wants to scream until his lungs are bleeding.

Kenny won't even hit him back. It's all he can think about, pacing the halls, tears welling in his eyes that feel like searing heat and frozen daggers all at once. Kenny won't even hit him back. Kenny looked at him and decided it wasn't _worth it_ to hit him back, that he wasn’t worth it. Matt can deal with him when he's restless and wild, when he has to keep moving or he'll panic, and he can deal with him when he needs a hand to start him standing up, to clean the blood off and get him on his feet, but. When Kenny turned away, there was _nothing_ in his eyes. No sadness, or regret, or mania, or even scorn.

It would be easier to deal with scorn, Matt thinks. It would be easier if he could retaliate, beckon Kenny to hit him, goad him into action—the spite isn't as good as tenderness, but it's enough. It's what they need, sometimes, and it's them, _together,_ and that's all that matters. Sometimes love is about inflicting pain. Sometimes love is about welcoming pain.

Kenny's blood is still on his knuckles, dry and flaking. There's a perverse pride in that, at least. There are traces of Kenny in everything Matt is, in everything he does, and the blood feels like a triumph, like proof of an intimacy nobody else (not Ibushi not Ibushi _not Ibushi)_ can have. And even when Kenny leaves him (leaves them) behind, he can see traces of himself in him, ghosts of the two of them helping Kenny walk backstage, the way his posture changes when he doesn't have them to lean on.

But Kenny won't even hit him back this time. Matt wishes it felt final, but he knows it isn't. Every time Kenny needs him, he's there, and Kenny always comes back, always needs him again. And Kenny won't hit him back, even though they both know that every strike is a request, a demand, _see me_ or _listen to me_ or _show me you're here_ asking for an answering _I see you_ or _I'm right here._ They're better at this violent dialogue than real conversation, used to communicating with their bodies before their words.

Matt's punch means a hundred things, _stop this_ and _tell us the truth_ and _look at me_ and so much else wrapped up in a single movement. And he knows Kenny understands, saw the recognition in his eyes before Kenny could stop it, and he knows Kenny chose to walk away instead of answering. And Matt's so tired of asking, so tired of clawing something, anything out of Kenny, nails and teeth and fists and sobs only half-hidden, but he can't stop, can't keep himself from pulling Kenny closer even after every time he pulls away. All he can tell himself is that _Kenny keeps coming back,_ that Kenny lets himself be pulled in, that Kenny might answer this time, even as the emptiness in the pit of his stomach says that he knows he won't.

All Matt wants is to hear Kenny say he needs him. All Matt wants is an answer, a way to close this door, but Kenny won't even give him that, and Matt doesn't know how to stop asking, stop hoping. And even as he makes himself turn around, makes himself start walking back to the hotel, the treacherous hope comes back, the endless suggestion of _maybe now, maybe here,_ and Matt is the one who's here and even if he doesn't need anything else, Kenny always needs someone there. And even if Matt can't have anything else he can keep this, the knowledge that when he has nobody else, Kenny will hold onto him so tight it hurts.

Maybe one day he'll learn how to tell himself it's not enough.

**Author's Note:**

> i swear mattkenny isnt actually the only thing i write anymore. i do actually have some other wips but theyll be a bit longer


End file.
